


Playground

by bezumiye



Category: Black Mirror
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 04:37:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13263843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bezumiye/pseuds/bezumiye
Summary: Before Daly makes him sexless, Walton is another sort of toy.





	Playground

**Author's Note:**

> So, hm. I'm trash and USS Callister pressed all my buttons.

In the first version of the game Walton is not smooth like a ken doll and Daly not a nonsexual tyrant. It figures: there are endless tortures to try on the CEO and sex is an obvious, easy one, so Daly pollutes his pristine universe with this simple sin.

Walton thought Daly would be better than this; it doesn’t suit his nerdy, righteous, cold vendetta to play the hyper masculine jock and tell him to get on his knees and suck his dick. He thinks The Captain is joking for a moment, even chuckles – a mistake that earns him a slap on the face.

So he does as he’s told, feeling strangely detached and then, when Daly’s cock first glides across his lips, afraid. As punishments go, this one is grounded more firmly in reality. It’s not a cartoonish display of power – it’s something bleaker, a tad more sinister. He can imagine Daly doing this in the real world, if he ever gets the chance. It shows in his expression, and The Captain smiles at him and his cock twitches, filling up, stirred on by his prisoner’s fear. Walton’s very first _please_ is almost uttered then.

“Go on, Lieutenant.”

He says.

Walton opens his mouth.

 

_It beats having my fucking face erased,_ Walton thinks, after, cleansing the taste of cock and cum with a concoction of the drinks on the shelf. He’s alone in the vessel, Daly has exited the game. It wasn’t his first time giving head – in the office everyone was fair game, including the hot male interns. He just closed his eyes and imagined one of them – Nate, for example. The fear dissipated after a while, as the nature of what he was doing. Just a series of motions, of wet sounds, of technique. Daly didn’t get laid very often in the real world. He came fast.

_You didn’t break me, asshole,_ Walton thinks to himself, _keep trying._

 

Daly does.

It takes a while for that particular punishment come out again. They go out in pointless missions. Walton is supposed to cheer as his Captain defeats monsters and villains. He’s supposed to be grateful for being rescued. To act as both suck-ass and damsel in distress.

He’s sarcastic all the way through, he mocks his Captain, he even tries to die once, throwing himself into a lava pit. Daly decides to discipline him again.

“On your knees.” He orders.

Walton obeys, already vacating his own mind. He’ll let his mouth work on its own, a self-running piano. This won’t be an ordeal. He won’t give Daly the pleasure.

That is, until the Captain adds:

“Wait. Beg for it first.”

Walton looks up, wide-eyed. He sneers then, as vicious as he is in the outside, and feels proud of himself for a moment.

“Fuck you.”

It’s brief.

He sees the change of expression in his Captain’s face – the pink mellowing down to paleness, his lips a thin, displeased line – before his own face is painted off, and he’s blind and mute and drowning, his flesh made a deathless cement.

Daly leaves him like this for a while and then releases him from the punishment. Walton coughs and heaves on all fours. Daly doesn’t wait for him to recover before grabbing him by his hair.

“I said beg.”

Walton pants. He can lick the bastard’s cock but he won’t fucking beg for it. His anger comes out as a growl:

“And I said fuck you, you fucking asshole.”

Daly sighs. Walton expects pain again but it doesn’t come. His jailer only says:

“You make this way harder than it has to be, James.”

 

Enter Tommy.

In the outside world Walton didn’t play Infinity. A dealer doesn’t use their own drugs, and to him the same rule applied. He could understand the appeal, though. It was easy to explain how much cash they were making off that geek, immaterial shit. People were free to be assholes inside Infinity in a way they were never allowed to in the real world.

They were free to be powerful, to be conquerors. But none had mastered Divinity the way Daly had.

Old testament like. Walton’s heart as solid, as broken made of zeros and ones as it would be in the flesh. His child screaming and he was running, not believing, not yet, in the vastness of his Captain’s evil.

He begged then, got on his knees like a good dog.

Daly still pressed the button. Tommy was thrown into space. As the ice covered his body – his infant body, bird bones and brown, soft hair, like his mother’s – Daly held Walton by the back of the neck and made him watch.

His boy dissipated in glass-like shards. His days a sequence of nightmares.

 

After that, shell-shocked and hollow, Walton starts to comply.

Daly is happy for a while. But he eventually grows bored of such an irresponsive, empty doll.

 

“I’m feeling rather salacious, Lieutenant Walton.”

Daly says one day. They’re on the bridge, having just returned from a planet littered with blue crystals, said to be incredibly valuable according to Space Fleet’s narrative.

James looks at him, dull.

“Do you want me to suck your cock, sir?”

He offers, monotone.

Daly smiles.

“I was thinking something more personal. I’d rather fuck you, James.”

It takes a moment for a proper reaction to come, but when it does it fills Walton’s body with the awful high of terror. This is too much. He can’t allow this body, this body that killed his son, within his own. To let Robert touch him like this would be a lower hell

He runs, stupidly, all instinct and no thought. The corridors in the ship look the same. He cries out when Daly catches up with him and, with a physical force he didn’t expect of him, thrusts him against the wall. Walton whimpers, disoriented, feeling his Captain dragging him to one of the vessel’s private chambers.

“Robert,” He pleas, trying to escape his grasp, “Robert, _please—”_

Daly throws him on a bed. It’s covered in sheets the colour of wine, illuminated by gentler lights than the ones in the bridge. He hears Daly locking the door.

There are tears in his eyes now.

“I’ll suck your cock,” Walton tries, turning to his Captain, trembling hands reaching at his belt, undoing its bindings “Let me, let me suck your cock, please, I’ll make it so good—”

It seems to work for a second. Daly looks at him, a cold, reflective God holding his hair. Walton almost exhales.

“No. I will fuck you, James, but I can kill your son again before I do if you keep resisting me. So, what’s going to be?”

Walton sobs. Slowly, painfully, he climbs again upon the bed and his body holds itself up by its elbows and knees. He hopes Daly will grant him this, the mercy of not looking at his face while they fuck.

Robert pulls down his pants along with his underwear, let his hands rest upon the flesh of Walton’s ass, inspecting its softness, its milky colour. Like a scientist he slaps him there, as if to see the nature of the pink the impact creates. James lets out a small yelp.

“I wondered, sometimes, what would feel like to be inside you,” Daly muses, a finger slipping inside Walton’s crack, and Walton hates him, hates him and his words, _to be inside you,_ how dare he, how dare he speak as if they could ever be lovers— “When you were whoring yourself out for every guy with nice abs in college.” Daly caresses with his thumb the puckered redness of Walton’s hole and his prisoner shivers despite himself almost letting out a moan. It’s been a while since he’s done _that_. “You’re tighter than I expected.” The Captain says, breaching his Lieutenant’s ass with his finger. He crooks it inside him after a while, rubbing Walton’s prostate, making the CEO moan openly this time. Against Walton’s will his cock begins to stir.

Walton closes his eyes, hears shuffling behind him. His heart beats as fast as it went slow the past few weeks. Something being popped open. Lube. _He’s been planning this for a while,_ Walton thinks, something bitter and foul at his throat. And perhaps this is the worst thing, this passive waiting for his own rape. Daly doesn’t even allow him the dignity of fight.

“ _Oh—_ ” Walton moans, feeling Robert’s cock pushing against his ass, cold and slick with lube. “Wait, oh, you’re going in bare—” He bites his lip, bracing himself for the pain. His ass is not loose enough, the preparation was laughable at best. Daly’s cock is bigger than he likes to admit and it stretches him too violently. His own erection, however, never flaggers. “Put a condom on!” James begs when his voice is firm enough again “please—!”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Daly hisses, bottoming out. Walton is tight and pink around him, lovely, so lovely. His back dips into a waist small and pale. He turns a little, enough so Daly can see his teary eyes. “We’re both clean.” He gives himself a moment, and then drags his cock back, thrusting it inside James’ hole once more. Walton cries out, his body pushed forward but hindered still by Daly’s hands on his hips.

The pounding starts. Daly manages to hit his prostate often enough so Walton feels pleasure, but he wishes he wouldn’t: feeling anything good by these hands is loathsome, nightmarish. He clenches around Daly’s cock, trying to milk a fast orgasm out of him, fast enough to trim his own. Daly groans behind him and grabs him by the hair.

“Filthy slut,” Robert whispers, and the dirty talking sounds strange in his mouth, as if rehearsed, tried on before, mouthed only, no sound. In the real world, perhaps. As the real Walton walked through a corridor, watched by a very patient, methodical predator. The thought makes James sick. Robert presses on: “You’re hot for this. You love my cock, don’t you, whore? Say it.”

Walton hesitates. His mouth can’t seem to wrap itself around the words.

“ _Say it!”_ The Captain roars, and James babbles:

“I’m…I’m hot for this. I l-love your cock.”

“Tell me what you are.”

Walton whimpers. He can hear the smile in Daly’s voice. He’s being fucked almost lazily, the cock inside him gliding against his prostate torturously.

“Filthy slut.” The lieutenant whispers, and it’s not entirely wrong, is it? Not when he’s feeling pleasure from being fucked by the killer of his son, by his torturer—

“Louder.” Robert orders.

“I’m a filthy slut.” James complies, and Daly resumes the rough fucking, slapping his hips against Walton’s ass and pulling his hair. Walton sobs his pleasure, the pain but a note in his moans. “I’m a filthy slut!”

“ _My_ filthy slut.” Daly corrects him. James doesn’t need further instruction.

“Yours. Your filthy slut, Robert, God, please…!”

The rhythm becomes erratic. He feels spread open, speared by Daly’s cock, a trembling mess. The bed makes lewd noises as it hits the spaceship’s wall. _Don’t come inside me,_ Walton manages to think, knowing it’s no use, _please, please don’t come inside--!_

Daly wraps a hand around his neglected cock. The surprise, more than the pleasure, throws him asunder. Walton whines and clenches hard around the cock inside him, spasming as he comes, his cock emptying itself all over Daly’s hand. He’s still feeling the aftershock when Robert stills inside him, impossibly deep. He feels it then, and even the pleasure can’t make him less disgusted: Robert comes inside, filling him up.

Daly pats him on the ass as he slips out. Affectionately, almost. He sounds jovial:

“You did good, Lieutenant Walton.”

Walton lays in the bed, feels the spunk drying up on his thighs.

If there was anything whole left in him, it is broken now.

 

 


End file.
